fractured skulls
by Regina Imperatrix
Summary: He wills, and she obeys. Aizen/Rukia


**bleach**. aizen/rukia. pg-13. 5k words. _He wills, and she obeys._

notes: Best boy and best girl belong together.

.

* * *

She begins with a streak of black, thick and swift across the smooth ivory canvas. Adds a twist, a twirl, one curve then two, and finishes the masterpiece off with a dot. _There, perfect._

"You really like rabbits, don't you, Rukia?"

She nods, grins, a flash of white (paints a picture of unassuming innocence) and eagerly turns the sketch pad over for the bespectacled man to see. And he's smiling too, warm and friendly, something akin to fatherly pride shining through those dark, engaging eyes.

"It's a lovely drawing," he notes and her grin grows even wider (washed aside are grievances and doubts born from snickers a lifetime past).

So praised, turning to a fresh sheet, Rukia hums a cheery tune and begins her efforts anew.

...  
.

Her world is a perpetual white, blemished only by the odd shade of black.

Mindlessly, she waltzes through long, weaving hallways in desultory half-twirls and light half-steps. Her path stretches before her, longer and emptier, with no end in sight. Rukia wonders where it all ends and another world begins. Even though she needs to stay, here, in this quiet, peaceful place, with patchy sunlight coming in through sparse, intermittent windows like the comforting touch of god, she still hopes to leave some day. To get better – _knows she is unwell_ – and go beyond the white walls where she can _run, run fast and free_.

Every morning, she replays the same sequence, seeking. And at some point in her stroll, she'll find herself coming face to face with _his_ kindly visage.

A pleasant smile forms on his lips at her approach, the requisite _how-are-you-feeling-today_ is asked and then, he is offering her his hand.

Rukia takes it slowly – clueless and safely naïve – as he leads her away from her wandering and into nowhere.

...  
.

At night, Rukia dreams.

Fragmented images interwoven by long interludes that hold no meaning to her anymore.

A bird of fire, its wing-tips scorched with a promise of early death.

A knight in shining armour only not, donned entirely in black.

A hand entering her chest, burning lungs and nerve-endings to a crisp.

A sword, long and fast, piercing the air, seeking _blood_, aimed straight for her heart.

And then, then there are nights when she _remembers_….

Ice. Cold. A trident holding her aloft and laughter – so much dreadful laughter – and the world is in a haze, turning grey and cold, colder, _colder_–

She darts awake. Feels something uncanny, something unfamiliar, itching inside of her. Rukia doesn't know what to do in her own skin anymore. Not when all she can do is shiver and quiver under the draft of that unseen, unrelenting frost.

(She wants to call it _death_.

She doubts it's anything quite so simple.)

But then _he_ – the Doctor, _Sensei_ – comes. Brings with him a soothing cup of tea, the scent of books, light and peace, and immediately she thinks: _all is right_.

All is well once more.

...  
.

She thinks there are others in this strange, monochrome world.

Even if they only exist in her periphery as vague chaotic outlines, a mishmash of strange colours tossed against the void. A deep, startling emerald. A shock of pink. Electric blue, and yellow too. Rukia chases after their ghosts with speed and a certain daze that could be misread as fleeting grace, eager to allay her suspicions, prove their existence–

"What is it, Rukia? What do you see?"

_disprove her lunacy._

"Them! The _others_!"

The Doctor sighs at her response, a small frown cutting across his handsome features. "Rukia, we've been over this before. There is no one else here. The only people here–"

_are you and I. _

"But I can _see_ them! Why… why won't you _believe_ me?"

It's an accusation, tear filled, wavering like a swaying boat set out to conquer roaring seas. Her voice cracks and breaks, her throat is all tied up in knots and she waits, waits for an explanation. Validation. _Anything._

Visibly torn and concerned, Sensei crouches down before her. Rests a consoling hand on the crown of her head and slowly runs long fingers through her hair. Eyes – warm chestnut pools dipped in murky (_soulless_) black tar – focus on hers through thick-rimmed glasses. Ensnared, she dears not look away. Rather, she waits. Waits and breathes deep and hard – _and there's acid in her lungs _– and braces herself for what will come next.

"Because, Rukia," and his voice is deceptively calm, soft. "None of what you see is real."

She almost chokes on a sob as another piece of her mind fragments and falls.

...  
.

"…Sensei?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Can we go outside? I'm feeling much better today."

Hopeful, she visualises spiralling crescent moons and open meadows where she can _run, run fast and furious._

He turns to look at her, appraises her slowly with palpable uncertainty, before his features turn apologetic.

"I'm afraid you're not quite well enough for that, my dear girl…."

Right on cue and without pause, Rukia's face falls.

"But we will," he supplies just as quickly, placatingly. "One day soon. I promise."

He smiles. Smiles easily, fluidly – like soft lapping waves stretching across a _cold_ winter stream – and she can only mirror him. Unblinking, unthinking, her smile is taut and frigid.

"Yes, Sensei."

...  
.

The room is large.

Empty save the long white table and matching chairs (she counts thirteen). In the back of her mind, Rukia vaguely mulls over the number and finds it superfluous. For this strange, empty world.

The harsh scrap of metal against polished marble pulls her from her reverie. Smiling, the Doctor beckons. Automatically, her body begins to move – a marionette on strings – and she takes her seat. Sliding her chair forward the Doctor follows, dropping gracefully into his own (throne) at the head.

"Now then, shall we begin?"

She nods.

An assortment of photographs are laid bare before her, faces similarly familiar and not:

A boy with orange hair, features disfigured by a scowl, eyes conversely soft and _chasing some quaint, impossible dream._

Another with a head of red, uncouth and rough – _on the outside _– black tattoos adorning his head.

A steely faced noble, heart detached and closed off – _from the pains of yesterday_.

A smiling girl, bursting with all things warm – _as warm as the sun _– and joyful.

Two boys: one tall with_ a heart worth its weight in gold_. Another – _all logic and reason_ – gazing severely through a pair of oval glasses.

Each of their faces looks up at her, silent and expecting. Rukia rakes her eyes over them with a frown, biting her bottom lip. Memory escapes capture, _revelation_, and sinks back into the murky fog permeating the inner walls of her mind.

"Rukia, do you know any of these people?"

"I-I'm not sure. Maybe? I can't seem to remember."

"I see."

"Who are they?"

Slowly, delicately, Sensei removes his glasses and polishes them with a soft scrap of silk. Sighs once, returns the spectacles to his face, consumes a sip of tea, and then, finally, answers.

"Your friends. They were your friends."

...  
.

_Why can't I remember? _

Grazing fingers over the smooth texture of her white dress, Rukia wonders at this missing piece of the puzzle. It's an ache that will not cease, a haze colouring her gaze, tinting it black along with everything else around her.

(_The mind is in a daze and cannot see: that this is all a lie. Is all too faked and none too-real.)_

Sometimes – most of the time – she looks into a mirror and sees her own face gazing back, blank and unnaturally constrained.

(_She dreams of strawberries, summer-picked and ruby red. The heady laughter of youth rolling over her like sweet, intoxicating wine_.)

Caught up in a trance, she begins to cry. She can't help it, the sudden influx of a lifetime's worth of unnamed emotions. The indecipherable torrents of joy and sorrow, wrapping themselves around her. Suffocating her… with endearing, _crushing_, intent.

Sallow and pale and increasingly delirious, she makes to move. To stand and run and _God, Rukia, do something!_ only she moves too fast, too quick. Sure enough she trips and begins to fall haphazardly forward.

_Crack._

Something shatters, echoing her insanity and desperation.

Rukia barely registers the pain. Can scarcely smell and taste the sudden copper engulfing her senses, seeping free from her flesh. Hovering on the edge, she looks at her hands and notes the wash of crimson against alabaster with morbid fascination. Snake-like rivulets form and they won't stop trickling and dripping. Pitter-patter red on the floor.

Transfixed, her eyes do not blink.

And then she's looking up at the broken mirror ahead and sees–

her reflection, staring right back at her from many a haphazard angle.

Distorted, shattered, like the thousand shards littering the floor and Rukia thinks: _I am broken. Am warped and damaged and too-_too_ calamitous._

Broken, ruinous, _ruined_ – (by_ him!_) – and brokenbroken_broken_**broken****_broken_**–

Rukia screams.

...  
.

"You need to be more careful, Rukia."

With gentle and genteel grace and care, the Doctor tends to her wound. Pulls out the shards and cleans the cuts – _now, now, this might sting a little_ – all with a tender smile. At his words, shame courses through her, filtering into her core before staining her cheeks violent and red, like a far reaching, hysterical plague.

When she speaks her voice is small with the knowledge she's disappointed him. "I'm sorry."

He only smiles kindly, wistfully, like she isn't to blame. Raises her palms to his lips and kisses the cuts, soft and chaste. Rukia gasps, overwhelmed at the feel of his lips burning light feather-trails across her skin. The shade on her cheeks darkens, turns several shades harsher, and speaks like a confession in the face of her stunned silence.

As her heart skips a beat, she thinks she can feel his smile widen against her wrist.

But before she can think more on it he's sitting tall once more, focused on his task and wrapping a thin, white gauze over each wound, tightening them gently against her pale skin. Rukia anxiously watches him work, notes how the fibre clings to her like an unnatural second skin and resists the sudden urge to wriggle and shift.

"There now, all done."

She blinks, once, twice, focusing wide eyes on his kindly face (the unassuming façade). "Thank you, Sensei."

"Not at all. I'll always look after you, Rukia. Always."

Her heart skips another beat, then two, and she's reaching out to him, slowly, unsteadily. His hand meets hers halfway with complementary assurance, fingers intertwine and she feels a slight squeeze that she hesitantly returns. At the gesture, a swell of happiness blooms deep in her chest.

Meeting his eyes she blushes at the intensity of his gaze. Never before had he showered such flagrant, almost _ardent_, attention upon her. It causes her to smile, all soft and daintily. His other hand moves then, comes to a rest on her cheek in a tender caress full of promise and intent.

Rukia closes her eyes and eagerly seeks his warmth, allowing her head to rest against the comfort of his palm. Acquiescence embodies her being.

And just like that, she falls deeper into the abyss. Mind and body worn and spent.

...  
.

_She isn't dead. _

_And yet she is. Has been, for a long, long time now. Through a blur, she sees monsters roaming over her, leering, laughing…._

Hell_, her mind supplies. This was damnation for her sins. For failing her friends, for killing—_

_For Kaien-dono._

_"I see you're finally awake, Kuchiki Rukia."_

_His voice is sudden and brutal in its effect over her, succeeding in syphoning the last of her strength and hope with its merciless might. A silent cry escapes her lips, aimed at the heavens like a prayer, gorged on sorrow and pleading salvation. _

_Only, there is no salvation to be had. Not here, not in Hell. _

_Not for a sinner such as her._

_The bleakness threatens to suffocate her, but somewhere deep down in the exhausted recesses of her heart, a small spark of light burns bright against calamity and thoughts of her certain demise. It's more than enough to force her mind to relinquish its catatonic daze, and Rukia springs upright, fighting back dizzy spells as the ground beneath her wavers and trembles, threatening to topple her over. For a moment she thinks she might just collapse again, but a bitter rebellion against reality demands her final moments not be tainted by weakness. Not before _him_. So she fights against the anguish and inner turmoil, even as fear and dread takes root and spreads across her veins like liquid poison, chilling her to the bone in a sadistic cacophony._

Ichigo and Renji bleeding on the floor…

His hand in her chest…

Ichimaru's blade seeking to end her life…

_Rukia bites her bottom lip against the sudden influx of memories, against a bout of hysterics – now's not the time to lose the meagre remnants of her calm and wits. Fighting back the tears of remembrance, of pain and despair, she draws her sword instead. Readying herself for a chance to harm – to go down fighting – blinking rapidly and scanning the vicinity for his presence. For a likely point of exploitation, in a flurry of anger and retribution._

_"There's no need for such bellicosity, my dear Kuchiki-san. No one will hurt you here."_

_"Liar! Show yourself!" Rukia cries out, braver and steadier than she really is._

_Destined to tragedy, disposable and ephemeral, Rukia accepts that she will die here._

_But she won't cry. _

_Sinners don't get to cry._

_He approaches from her periphery, and Rukia jerks away, blade instantly at the ready and pointed straight at the white-robed figure, nobly poised and entirely at ease. The Lord of Hueco Mundo raises an amused brow at her frazzled state. Smiles, good-naturedly, and raises his hands slowly. Placatingly._

_'See? I am no threat' his gaze supplies, she hears the words unfold in her mind with vivid clarity. 'And you, dear girl, are no threat to me.'_

_He could peel her apart if he wanted to, bleed her dry and there would be nothing she could do to stop him. But that's not what he wants… no, that's not what he wants. And so she's forced to demand, to know–_

_"What _do_ you _want_!?"_

_The damnable traitor smiles. "All in due time, my dear."_

_With elegant flourish, Aizen Sosuke draws his sword. _

_She never stood a chance._

_In a flash of white, her world turns black. _

...  
.

Haunted and scared and shaking _like the flurry of a thousand cherry-blossoms coming down_ – another scene from her dreams she cannot place – Rukia runs through the cold, lonely halls and dives under empty sheets belonging to a large bed not her own. But there is refuge to be found there as she breathes in deep the scent of _him_. Like some swift narcotic effect, she feels a lull taking hold as she tells herself to sleep… _to forget such things and think only of _him_!_

Soon enough she feels his warmth, enveloping her in a strong yet tender hold. Like a frightened child, she clings to him. Cries her desperation into his chest as he hushes and coos and rubs her back with mild, soothing strokes. Mindless of her pitiful state, she takes all he has to offer, every promise of peace and salvation, without complaint. Knowing–

_he's all she has._

"It's all right Rukia, it's all right now. I'm here."

At his words, the nightmare is already a distant memory. And soon her tears are gone too, all dried up and brittle.

_Why was she crying?_

She can scarcely remember anymore.

...  
.

_Sensei's orders are always to be obeyed. _Always_._

Absently, mindlessly, Rukia exhales a quiet breath and reaches for the bottle left for her. A mouthful of bitter amber and she's suddenly closing her eyes against the horrid taste, willing herself to swallow. Quickly (anxiously) she reaches for the accompanying water and downs every last icy drop.

_Breathe_. One, two, three, and she feels better already.

Really, she does.

Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Rukia smiles and fractures her jaws.

...  
.

_Kuchiki-san!_

Rukia pauses at that, at what she thinks is the sound of her name being carried forth by the wind.

_No! Stop–_

_Kuchiki-san!_

There it is again. With an insatiable curiosity Rukia turns and ventures down a corridor, seeking a source. Finds none at all. Not to be dissuaded she continues – because she _knows_ she heard her name – turns down another empty corridor with what is a steadily increasing and ever so frenzied pace.

_I hear you! I hear you! _her mind chants. Heart quaking with wild disjointed beats, Rukia sprints further into the blinding white sanctum, seeking…. _Seeking_….

She collides with another object, hard.

All of a sudden and out of nowhere, there was no chance she'd have been able to avoid it. Lungs burning, ribs widening into an unholy rift, she yelps in surprise as she finds herself on her back against the cold, frigid floor. And there she lies, weak. Spent.

Once again strung up by another's marionette strings.

"Rukia?"

Breathing heavily, she notes how the sound of his voice is enough to render her small and foolish.

"Sensei," she whispers, gaze suddenly downcast and demure. Properly chastised, she readies herself for his words. A thickened honeyed stream that will leave her gorged on benign admonitions in the face of her current delusions.

Only, he says nothing. His hand appears before her instead, offering assistance.

She doesn't think to refuse.

Hoisted gently upright, Rukia swallows hard and keeps her gaze turned away. She cannot face him like this, with all her follies engraved so starkly on her face. Not after he has told her time and time again–

_None of what you see is real._

"You surprised me there. Do try to be more careful in the future, all right? I wouldn't want you injuring yourself."

Finally meeting his gaze, his smiling façade as pale as midnight, she schools her features. She must feign strength for (her) his sake, for the boundless concessions he has made. For her.

"Yes, Sensei."

...  
.

Someday, she's going to fly, spread out feathers, white and pale, blinding in the sun, and soar high and wide across the sky. Someday she will leave this place.

"Sensei?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Can we go outside? I'm feeling much better today."

He turns to look at her, appraises her through thick glasses that suddenly catch the light as his head turns. His eyes – and the secrets they hold – are suddenly hidden from her by blinding white.

Rukia resists the urge to look away, the brightness more than she can bear. Rather she holds still and waits for a response, fighting back the tears in her own eyes.

"I'm afraid you're not quite well enough for that, my dear girl. But we will. One day soon. I promise."

_One day._

_Some day._

"Yes, Sensei."

_Some day…. _

...  
.

There is a flash of silver and her nerves are suddenly on edge. Nausea overwhelms, creeping up her throat, ready to unleash in violent torrents of acrid acid and waste.

Turning slightly (fearing the truth, the startling nightmares only _all-too-real_) Rukia's eyes widen at the long, pale face smirking right at her, sneering. A-creeping and a-crawling this-way-that, hot on her tail, right on her heel, ready at any moment to reach out with thin, twisted claws and–

_"Ya still remember me, ne? Ru-ki-a-_chan_!"_

_That voice!_

She jumps, is terrified. Petrified (because he's some horrid creature, some writhing, recondite _demon_). With trembling hands she grasps onto the Doctor's pristine white coat – _salvation!_ – and holds onto it tight, _tighter_. Holds onto it for dear life–

_"Don't mind lil' ol' me, I just wanted to tease ya a lil' bit!"_

_ohgodkeephimawaykeephimawayPLEASE__**GOD**__KEEPHIMAWAY!_

"Rukia, my dear, what's wrong?"

"I…," she darts about, on edge. Eyes wide, gleaming wet and wildly seeking the source of all her fears. Only… the smiling monster is gone. All false and fallacious, is no more.

And the Doctor's hand is suddenly atop her shoulder, like a soothing balm upon her frazzled nerves, squeezing reassuringly. Breathing deep, Rukia manages a watery smile before meeting his concerned gaze.

_None of what you see is real._

The memory runs its course, causes her pause. Sensei waits, silent. _Expecting_.

"Nothing, Sensei," she finally relays, turning towards him with unhurried, automated movements. Her features expressionless.

"Nothing at all."

...  
.

"Rukia."

He calls to her. Draws her to him.

Ensnared, all her attention immediately shifts to him. Thoughts gone errant, heart turned renegade, she heeds his call without a thought. So it is, so it has been for a while now. Her every thought moulded by him. Her very existence carved by him.

She lives solely for him.

_Him_, her dearest Sensei. Her friend. Mentor. And _more_, something much, much more.

That should have caused her pause, should have been cause for _alarm_. But she is beyond such concerns now, remoulded and reborn anew. By _him_.

"Do you know any of these people?" he asks simply.

Rukia looks down at the familiar spread of photos, at the not-so-familiar faces. Rakes her mind and finds little affirmation. The strangers' eyes beckon, but she is unable to heed their wordless calls.

"No, Sensei. I do not."

Absent hesitation, misperception, Rukia puts truth to words and meets his expecting gaze with calm resolve.

He smiles at that, all too satisfied and content. And Rukia smiles too, knowing that for whatever reason, she has pleased him.

_...  
._

_Ice is frangible, chip at it and it will shatter into a thousand tiny shards dancing. _

_Dancing with an all too beautiful and tragic grace._

_And ice was just like her._

_Her. _His_ Rukia._

_She looked all the more beautiful fragmented and broken._

...  
.

"Rukia."

"Yes, Sensei?"

Instantly, her attention is his. Her world zeroes in on that kind, smiling and unassuming façade she knows all too well, etched eternally into her mind and heart.

"You're doing quite well as of late."

A statement, and Sensei knows best. "Yes, Sensei."

He approaches and offers her a hand. Rukia takes it, bony arm raising and hand softly falling into place like a wilted moon-scarred flower stripped of vivacity. She has no will to call her own, no thought. He wills, and she obeys.

There is an unexpected coolness to her hand as it makes contact with his. Not at all unpleasant. She sighs, imagining how delightful it would feel to sink against him, white silk forgone and entirely bare. He's seen her heart, the depths of her soul, and the flimsy layers adorning her hide nothing of greater intimacy or import.

As if reading her mind, her desire plainly on show, his eyes glimmer like a sunlit winter stream. Beckoning like a canvas of diaphanous threads slinking to cloak her limbs, to coax them into action, to lay all charms bare and so chant _come, take a dip_.

Rukia would do anything to sink into that cool icy pool. To dissolve into him because she's learned all too well nothing beyond him is real.

As if on cue, a proposition falls from his lips. "Shall we go outside today?"

Her breath catches, the iciness of his touch suddenly a scorched, frosted flame.

_Outside._

_Some day._

**_Today_**_._

Elated and jittery, knees weak and head unable to think, Rukia can scarcely believe it. The cold flushes her body and jolts her spirit. She feels a joy and freedom she cannot name yet instinctually knows she craves.

"Yes!" she exclaims, fondness in her eyes and heart on her sleeve, all so easy for him to see.

Sensei smiles and there is a darkness there – _shrewd, calculating, cruel_ – but that can't be right. Her eyes are fooling her.

Sensei is goodness personified and flawless in all that he does.

Perfection.

A _god_.

He can possess no blemish or fault.

So decided, Rukia squeezes his hand, encouraging. The path before them beckons as he acquiesces to her wordless request (never demand). So the air shifts, the silence becomes thick, disjointed. Fuddled and muddy as they walk toward a bright, white horizon.

The scorching frost against her skin is white-hot, and Rukia smiles as it burns her whole.

...  
.

_Shatter, Kyoka Suigetsu._

...  
.

A breath, drawn in and out, slow and low.

Ensconced in silence, Rukia stares out at the night sky through the throne room's wall-length windows with absent wonder and ease. And the stars and moon look too-too beautiful, as if something had changed, somewhere, somehow. Rendering the world all the more lovely and good.

She contemplates this shift as an Arrancar servant approaches, silent and bows low before her. An offering is presented, a snow white blade atop a plush velvet cushion. With a smile she takes it – _reacquaints herself with it_ – twirls it in her hand with practiced ease until it practically hums as it cuts through the air.

It's as if a piece of her, long lost, has returned once more. Making her wholly whole.

Rukia's never felt more at ease in her own skin before.

Just then the doors open and the curtains fall, enveloping her in pitch-black velvets, muffling all other sound. She gasps and twirls expectantly, skipping to the reverberating source with barely muted expectation and awe. Deftly, she sheathes the blade behind flowing white skirts and robes, and eagerly greets her Lord.

"_Aizen-sama_."

Names are sacred, and _his_ is one etched firmly in her mind, her heart. So much so she cannot imagine ever _not_ having known it. And so she whispers it with a deference reserved only for god.

He, him, _Aizen_, smiles down at her approach, flanked by his cohorts. The blind man and grinning (_serpent_). Rukia doesn't even spare them a glance as her world zeroes in on only the man in front.

In her periphery, she barely notes a struggling blur of orange and white. A streak of emerald and black just overhead. An exclamation, a sharp yelp and her name _Kuchiki-san! Kuchiki-san!_ spills forth into the soundless milieu. Desperate, seeking to ensnare, to _evoke_ (recollect) but Rukia carries on, aloof and impervious.

Nothing else exists, nothing else is real, save _him_.

"Rukia," _he_ greets, his deep voice washing over her like silk and venom-honey. "You've reached a decision, I take it?"

She shivers in delight as he awaits her response. Indomitable, undaunted. Only acceptance in her smile and eyes. She will never reject him. He is her salvation (her perdition).

"Yes, _Aizen-sama_. If you will permit it… I wish to stay… with you."

Aizen smiles, clearly pleased, and extends his arms forward like a benevolent father. Beckoning, wordlessly agreeing to her request. Falling forward and into his hold, she sighs as arms close over and around the smooth curve of her back. As a hand makes its way over the smooth ridges of her spine with whisper-strokes, across the fine line of her shoulder. A shiver runs through her as he finally moves to caress her cheek, angling her head _just so_.

Rukia tells herself this is it, this is what she wants, and any reason – any notion of doubt or propriety or _self-preservation_ – goes renegade when he plants a kiss on her lips, savouring the taste of her. The lotus-jasmine in her hair, the snow in her blood. She is pure and white and his to do with as he pleases.

Drunk on him, she ignores the gasp in the background – her name despondently whispered – and tiptoes to deepen the kiss, gripping the lapels of his white robes for balance. Rukia kisses him and sees fire, frost, hears the deafening din of stars, the roar of a sun, and the hum of a full ivory moon. His lips are perfect as if cut from marble and something _darker_ that she can't quite completely capture, and so Rukia redoubles her efforts. Exploring, probing, seeking an unfortified crevice. A point of breach with which to unravel his secrets.

Aizen smirks and chuckles against her mouth at the eager (fruitless) display before taking her lips once more, tongue suddenly dominating hers. Claiming victory and scorching her whole.

Before she can even think to retreat his other hand begins crawling up her thigh, nails biting through silk as if to leave behind crescent scarlet scars. Thrilled by the prospect – _the mark of ownership_ – she can only whine her displeasure through bruised, swollen lips when he finally pulls away.

"Patience, my dear," he admonishes playfully, tucking a loose strand of hair behind an ear. "There will be time. Once we return."

Ah. Yes, she remembers now. The task set forth before her. Sobering instantly, gaze severe, she bows her head in understanding.

"Of course, Aizen-sama. I… I am ready."

Aizen's lips twist ever so slightly as he offers her his arm, a picture perfect gentleman through and through. Eagerly accepting it, Rukia meets his eyes in the dark, her own wide, cluelessly naïve and trusting. His confident, hiding secrets and convictions beyond human understanding.

Slowly, they begin their ascent towards the glimmering pool, shining bright ahead. The image of a town wavers and slinks into view as the ripples subside with every approaching step. There are _others_ there, she knows, foes that must be dealt with.

The uncertainty plays on her mind, the not-knowing what to expect, but his other hand closes over her own like a balm, an offer of comfort. Only his touch is icy cold, and she feels like she is being burned anew by frozen flames.

"It is the world that is mistaken, Rukia. All false and fallacious. It is our duty then to show them the truth and make them understand."

Rukia muses on his words….

_None of what you see is real._

And nods her understanding. Aizen-sama knows best, after all.

To force them to bend (_as he did her_) was only right.

To end the end, so the world could be birthed anew. To this end, she will deny him nothing.

Meeting his gaze, Rukia smiles her assent and fractures her jaws.

_Fin_


End file.
